


A Most Wanted Man

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Winter Falling [2]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes-centric, Come Swallowing, Come as Lube, Dom/sub, Drinking, Forced Orgasm, Gay Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Thor: The Dark World, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Top Thor (Marvel), Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Bucky harbours many secrets. In his attempts to build a normal life for himself, he's taken a job at a club owned by none other than Thor Odinson, prince of Asgard, fellow Avenger. He would never admit to a mostly unrequited crush on his boss if asked directly.But some things don't need to be said.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It won’t be the first time Bucky finds himself fixated on Thor’s mouth and wondering if the natural strength of the god of thunder would translate into his kiss, or if he would restrain himself. 
> 
> He loves his girl with all his heart. 
> 
> But he can’t help but daydream about the Asgardian prince. Being fucked by him.
> 
> This isn't love. It's lust. And he wants more than he can say.

Life slowly approaches something closer to normal. Bucky appreciates that sort of thing. Seventy-five years ago, the idea of settling down with a pretty girl might have given him pause. He certainly never imagined working in a posh club in Greenwich Village. Not by a long shot.

How things change after a few decades in service for the U.S.S.R. as their most dreaded killer. Dependent on these touchstones of normalcy, he covets the routine to keep him sane.

Waking up next to his best girl beats scraping frost off a broken window and waiting for the moment his target to step into the crosshairs of his scope.

The club provides him with cover against old enemies, security, and a handsome paycheque. It’s the sort of place he and Steve might stutter step past as callow teenagers, peering at the posters for acts barely known. Not for nothing, the place holds a reputation -- hallowed, almost -- among those in the know for showcasing acts months before they make it big.

Sometimes patrons act like they know him, a double take. He excels at turning his face away, disappearing into the shadows. Street skills he never thought to use in civilian life work well at New York’s best club.

Working gives him a sense of purpose and pride. Pride for a job well done, and his small part in making the place a success.

The lion’s share goes to the leonine patron behind the place. Not many know Thor Odinson, prince of Asgard, owns and runs an exclusive club in Greenwich Village. Bucky hardly believes it himself, but after seeing the slim pickings for entertainment in the city, he started his own after consulting with the Avengers.

“A city requires a proper feasthall,” Thor declared and what the God of Thunder wants, he gets.

New York fricking City has just about everything under the sun, jazz halls to gay clubs and places Bucky can’t even describe with a full command of three languages. But a sleek, dimly lit place serving up glorious brews and staffed by Asgardians eager to taste a little of Midgard? Nowhere else has that.

Besides, the place stays under the radar from the powers that be, despite being run by a power that is. If SHIELD knows, they turn a blind eye.

Instead, he gets to serve a diverse range of clientele and enjoy the camaraderie of a long-lived, martial race who probably seem him as a babe in arms at the ripe old age of a century. They’re beautiful, spirited, and ruthless regarding foul tempers, harassment, and belligerence. Just his sort of place.

If he were honest, Bucky might admit to himself that the blond, laughing man who takes to the bar on occasion -- pretending no one knows who he is, though everyone plainly does, there’s no hiding Thor -- holds a certain thrall over him.

By the end of the night, most of the patrons slough off in their Ubers or on foot to whatever hideyhole they call home. He can look forward to those rare hours shared in bed before dawn, wrapping his arms around his girl, feeling the warmth of her body seeping into the sheets cradled around their bodies.

Long as no one calls them to save the Earth again from a newfound risk, he might even catch a few dreams before the day begins in earnest. The serum makes it possible for him to maintain some kind of normal life even with the grueling schedule, at times no more than three hours of sleep a night.

But he’s still human and looks forward to the short walk to his apartment at the end of the shift. With any luck, he can finish without his idle thoughts -- _fantasies_ , call them what they are -- making him any harder than he already is.

Bucky carries a little permanent ember of desire in some cranny of his fragmented heart, though mostly swamped by that twitterpated aura, the newlywed glow. Cracking programming was enough to free him for his mostly mortal girl, so while he hasn't exactly been dancing and singing his way through the end of the day chores… well, it's close. Even the staff's teasing can't puncture that mood, since it's generally gently meant. 

He rag-mops his way over the glossy main floor, singing to himself softly in French - Piaf, no doubt. Dressed in jeans and t-shirt, the suit having been taken off against dirtier work, hair pulled back into a long tail. Anymore evidently content and he'd have birds and mice helping him.

Kara, a pretty strawberry-blonde who manages the bar, smiles as he goes past.

“Doesn’t look like you need me to mix you anything special tonight.”

Bucky shakes his head, erasing the footsteps of patrons vanished into the cool predawn.

Upstairs, Sanna -- another of the Asgardians who followed Thor to Earth for fresh challenges -- handles everything about the entertainment, shutting down the sound system and closing up the mezzanine stage. Her silhouette painted on the ceiling follows that sinuous movement from room to room.

Oncoming dawn pushes Thor out of the deep niche leading to the office. Bucky hasn’t seen him all weekend, and suddenly there he is, larger than life, golden and breathtaking and unusually dressed up.

Gone are his usual casual jeans and t-shirt under a hoodie, so out of keeping with the club’s upscale atmosphere. A suit somehow tailored to his impressive physique gives Thor a shocking kind of attractiveness. Black and white, his shirt is worn loose at the collar and golden cufflinks at his wrists must be some kind of joke.

Bucky catches sight of one. _Lightning bolts?_

No subtlety, but then, subtlety is for the wizard who lives in Greenwich Village, not a millennia-old prince.  
  
_"Tant qu' l'amour innondera mes matins,_   
_Tant qu'mon corps fremira sous tes mais,_   
_Peu m'important les problemes,_   
_Mon amour, puisque tu m'aimes_ ."  
  
Singing? In the middle of whatever hour it happens to be? That's not right. Is Thor drunk? He might be.  
  
Can he even **_be_ ** drunk? Asked, Buck'd've guessed he couldn't. At least, not on anything that could be consumed on Earth itself. He looks over at that, not pausing in the mopping, letting his own song die away. The room smells of some lemony cleaner, lit more brightly now that the patrons have gone - time for the employees to make sure everything'll be in order for the next day. No attempt to catch Thor's eye; if the boss is off in his own little world, he's more likely to keep singing. So no interruptions from the youngest employee.  
  
Not exactly drunk; inebriation on too much mead, downing a Vanir keg, could very well produce that buzz associated with a heady champagne or a high alcoholic-content liquor. Thor is more than capable of downing batches fatal to human livers for a bit of a thrill on the tongue, but then again, the man channels cosmic lightning storms for fun. Tesla doesn't know the half of it.  
  
Lemon cleaner surely receives approval from Kara, but she has once again fallen asleep in the horseshoe booth near where Bucky cleans the floor.

A forgotten coat lies over her body, and the bartender valkyrie sleeps before the dawn. There is always someone who leaves behind their things. Sanna, her valkyrie sister, peers over the railing and nods, vanishing into another of the mezzanine rooms to tidy things up there.

Thor doesn't sing loudly to Piaf, not when the liquid music shifts over to another swooning black-foot French ballad. Hearing fluent jazz out of the god is a surprise, but Bucky still can’t believe Thor sings at all.

Does he believe that story about finding something to impress the ladies with, and Fandral never leaving off until Thor could carry a tune? Not really, but the mortal has little else to go on. Hearing those rich, full tunes filling the club proves that Thor learned somewhere, somehow.  
  
The blond glides past the club’s gorgeous Yamaha piano, headed to get something very particular, very select, from the bar. It's an old bottle, so opaque as to be probably ceramic. Plunked on the granite, the low melody resonates. A cup. Just one.  
  
Drinking alone? Surely not. The bottle Buck doesn't recognize, but that's so often the case. Six plus months of working here, and there are surprises yet, his far from the only if definitely the most ragged secret identity. Kara might well be asleep under **his** coat, really -- a loan he won't cavil at. Let her rest, she works harder than he does. An easy rhythm to his motion, learned long ago as a private in the Army.

This, at least is a far classier joint than cleaning up an improvised barracks wrecked by drunken Commandos.  
  
Cellars contain all sorts of interesting elixirs, the foaming icy drink that instantly chills the glass or a fine mead more in common with sungold than actual liquor. All kinds of elixirs confirm the most demanding tastes, short of 'I like human blood' or divine ichors, since the latter are bad for business and, simply, most gods don't bleed so much as distill down into feathers and fluff.  
  
The lid pops off, uncorked, the thick plug set aside deliberately on the marble and granite bar to avoid an unwanted accident. A heady brew arises from the contents, spice on a storm, the thick residue of a night-whipped sea coming up heady and treacle. Dark ghosts caress the face in their whispery storm-wrack, black cherry and honeyed sherries creeping over caramel notes. Lashings of roasted nuts roll around the burnt orange peel and dark sugar, dissolved by a finish in the hurricane wind. Pour out a bit and the luscious vivid copper spirit gathers, drops trailing slowly back down into the body. He thumbs the edges, capturing a bead, while cinnamon and clove traipse past the creme brulee sparks.  
  
Those scents are enough to pierce the veil of faux lemon verbena and his own perpetual aura of warm metal. It has Buck lifting his head and sniffing the air like a hound, before turning to look directly over at Thor and the bottle.

"Boss, what **is** that?" he asks, finally. "It smells great."

He so rarely bothers with the liquors for himself, beyond those whose taste he knows and likes. Prohibitively expensive for him to get anywhere near drunk, considering -- it'd be a blasphemous waste to splash that out in an assault on that liver. But that scent; sweets and spices are a weakness.  
  
"I'll answer you after you drink it." Thor leaves the drink sweating on a coaster shaped ironically with a golden bar slashed through the black circle. Ultradark velveteen touch out of cardboard drifts in space under the stormy viscosity expanding into the glass, a tulip bulb unusual for any liquor, but not impossible. Not as though he just popped open an Armagnac that came distilled with its own French blown glass, at any rate.

The Asgardian prince offers that guarded smile on the edge of a smirk, heathen chemistry to render someone so plainly human into something decidedly not. No divine mantle, no hammer; he is merely a man, but beyond every archetype of a normal man, his bluff smile and crackling gaze full of a superhuman magnetism. Golden hair deepened to wheat flax tumbles over his brow, and he leans back against the bar, both elbows hitched to catch it. "Drink all of it. There’s nothing poisonous, at least not in this quantity, but anything we serve could kill a few liver cells in the process.” He grins. “That aged under hurricanes and sunshine. It’s the very essence of violence becalmed to something suitably, unutterably mythical."

Bucky figures he’s been spending too much time among Asgardians, and Thor must have spent too much time with that brother of his to have such a turn of phrase. Too late now, though, he commits to drinking his poison down.  
  
That's a dare and an offer he can't resist. Buck sets aside the mop, dropping the last grubby rag in its bucket, and draws off the rubber gloves he's been using. Nothing hides the metal arm now.  
  
The appearance of a man, and that much more of a temptation thereby. Buck comes up soft-footed to pick up the glass. He inhales again, once, takes a tentative sip. Nothing of the wine connoisseur's snobbery, but mere mortal curiosity. He'd remember this one if he'd smelled or tasted it before, and he knows he hasn't. Then he lifts it to Thor. "To your good health," he intones.  
  
Rubber gloves and a glass of thirty-five-year-old rum distilled out of the tears of Iemanja or some other potent loa in the Caribbean Sea. Controversial implications might be gained if that came from Cuba, though likely Thor found someone who brought the bottle out from the distillery on some salt-licked island wreathed in white sands and tumultuous jungle.  
  
He watches Bucky like a hawk, measuring every nuance of expression and posture. How much can be learned from a book of a man by reading between the lines, black font stamped on parchment. "Drink to yours," he chuckles warmly. "The prospect of anyone drinking to my health feels somewhat wasted; health isn't an issue."  
  
Acknowledgment of the unintended irony in a little smirk and lift of his brows. A silly thing to say, perhaps.

So he amends it to, "Za vas." The all-purpose Russian toast, 'To you.' "It's as good as it smells," he says, on a sigh. "And strong enough to hit me."

No inquiry as to source, it speaks for itself, doesn't it? There's a shiver as he takes a bigger slug of it, gauging its impact as it burns its way down to smolder in the pit of his belly like a volcano just waiting for a virgin sacrifice. Closing his eyes, savoring it.  
  
No need to gargle the rum. Its smoothness reaches the palate in a rush rather than creeping modestly in, and not a tang of sharpness exists in the aging process. Oh, the caramel or butterscotch notes lead the way on a cinnamon and nutmeg-flecked top layer, foam strafed over a reef. The underlying structure is where things get interesting, that slightly burnt toffee opening in dimensions the longer Bucky savours the taste at the back of his palate. Blackcurrant and a few studded fruits carry through only in the imagination, balanced on black honey and smoke. This is no golden rum, no white, nothing so plain. Devious spiced liquor splashed by something with a slow-burning heat that opens phoenix wings in the belly long after the first sticky taste glistens on the lips. There the heat banked and smoldering delivers important sparks, hitting right for the bloodstream.  
  
Eyes shut. Tumbling, driven down, down, down, to the infused burn of firelight glow on the fading smoky tide. A bottle shouldn't hold so much of an impact but the old methods used down there in Tobago or other West Indies preserve some old, valued lore. They leave rum offerings to their slant saints, their loa, their spirits.  
  
Another pour from the bottle. Finishing it up, thirty bucks down the drain. "Drink," Thor says. "Really drink it, once you've tasted it."  
  
He has a weakness for sweetness, that's known, and occasionally mocked. And this is the most lovely expression of it -- not merely some cloying blend jolted with the force of vodka, or liquor cloaked in something that'd otherwise appeal to the palate of teenagers. He does drink it, more swiftly, but not so fast he can't enjoy it. It brings up that flush on his cheeks and throat and ears, and a stutter of incredulous laughter.

"I knew some Jamaicans in the war, and they had good stuff from home, but nothing like this," he adds. There's another almost giggle. Well, at least he's a cheerful drunk.  
  
Vodka mixed in fruit juice can't really compare to the fruits of the earth pressed into a wine or this, the heated swirl of sugarcane refined again and anew. This has nothing of a fiery punch aligned to everclear, nothing at all like the foamy, hoppy finish to a dark beer. "Enough people like different islands to have a broad choice. That has the certain mystique of lying on a reef for a few decades and slipping under the sands before coming to the club." Maybe he's telling a tall tale about pirate booty. Will it matter?  
  
A cheerful drunk. Thor is always bombastic and intense, a storm in his own right, or the sort jettisoning all pretenses at humanity as he loops a massive arm around someone’s shoulders and delights in existence.

Right now, laughter lingers there in his eyes for a moment. Watching Bucky drink the rum down halts the grin, something brief and impulsive seizing hold of the god. His need is a soundless force, and what he needs is right there, brown-haired, frosty-eyed, staring at him with a drunken certainty.

It won’t be the first time Bucky finds himself fixated on Thor’s mouth and wondering if the natural strength of the god would translate into his kiss, or if he would restrain himself. The one previous, memorable encounter was all savage force of a storm in the midst of terrible inner turmoil, and ever since, it’s all he can think about.

He loves his girl with all his heart. But he can’t help but daydream sometimes about Thor. 

What Thor would be like in bed.

If he wouldn't hold back and give Bucky the hard fuck he wants and can never ask for, pushing him to the edge of breaking on the borderline of pain and pleasure, where the stimulation overwhelms the ability to think or breathe.

Later he has to ask himself if the golden-haired warrior can read minds, or if his face shows that much truth for someone better at reading intentions than he lets on. Never mind that the rum goes straight to his head. Sergeant Barnes is good at hiding his feelings.

An idea pushes Thor forward, pinning Bucky's hip to the bar. Forget stools, he can navigate them. Hell, he'll lift the man up onto the marble. Other hand slides to the nape. A fight ends it all, of course, if the mortal protests the violation of place and purpose.

Bucky doesn’t push him away or raise his vibranium-infused arm to push back, as if he could really contest Odin’s son in a fair fight, or any kind of fight. But the kiss is the one way to get drunk, sort of.

The rum's hit hard and fast enough to slow his reflexes, drag awareness down to approximately the pace of the molasses this was started from. His mouth tastes only of rum, as shock shudders through him. That little coal of persistent lust flares into life like a breathed-on ember. Well, liquor is combustible, fumes likely to catch. Protest? No. None. Nor is the feeling of pinned enough to kick in those reflexes. Blunted by comfort and perceived safety, though that is a knife in his pocket. Not quite yet **that** happy to see Thor.  
  
Good to know about the knife -- so it doesn't stab anyone. In case he needs that to rip through clothing with a single-minded focus. Destroying garments isn't a hazard of hanging around with gods. They simply tend to think in terms of fabric of creation.  
  
Balancing the ancient and the modern requires a certain skill. No tearing down walls, no violating boundaries really. Rough kisses claim the taste of Bucky's mouth. Thor thrusts his tongue in, battering against closed teeth until they part, not really taking anything short of actual no for an answer.

The breath across the living ember of coherent desire goes flying out the window, hand sliding down between them to find the seam of the soldier's pants. Nails slide low and high, dragging on the weave to encourage a speckling of sensations.  
  
A folder, for now, more pocketknife than combat dagger. Lips parted, yielding eagerly. He's definitely kissing back, not afraid like the first time -- he has those memories to buoy him. The hand makes him whimper and arch into it, denim old enough to be soft from wear, but still a provider of that provoking friction. He's braced himself against the bar, the right gripping the edge, the left balled in a fist resting atop the marble, lest those metal fingers mar it.  
  
Is there a point to saying look, and touch? No.  
  
Thor has no manners as such; he simply takes the balled fist and pulls it around his side, allowing logic to take over from the obvious instruction and guidance afforded by the doctoral student to a freshman in the school of life. Not that Bucky might appreciate being thought of in such terms, however apt. His mouth leads a parade of unspoken frustration or temptation -- hard to distinguish the two, really -- by plundering every untouched corner for tastes of that stormy rum plucked from a forgettable isle likely to be spared hurricane-force winds over the next storm season.

The god seeks out the traces with his tongue, meanwhile caressing edge on, dragging meandering lines up and down Bucky's thigh until the arching whimpers increase in frequency. He doesn't need to see to unsnap a button or drag on a zipper.  
  
So true, though. Twenty-five or so years of actually lived life, nevermind the nearly seven decades of blank-minded slavery. The metal hand splays against Thor's back, between trying to maintain balance and some attempt at caresses in return. It's followed by its more ordinary mate, that one reaching to tug the hem of that shirt up to let him get a palm against golden skin.  
  
He's gasping into that kiss, but not trying to break it. If he runs out of air and consciousness between that wicked mouth and the rum, so be it. No, no need for observation, standard issue jeans, long before the days when they're couture, and beneath, plain cotton boxers in a chaste blue stripe. Neither of which do much of a damned thing to conceal his reaction, intemperate freshman, indeed.  
  
"Third glass?" Mean question, under the circumstances. Perfectly acceptable query, otherwise. The bottle is within easy arm's reach, though the heavy ceramic vessel can deliver a hell of a goose egg if smashed over the skull. Rum fills about half the bottle, freely swigged from the open mouth as Bucky might prefer. Thor has the wherewithal to occupy both his hands in the best of ways, either reaching for the libation or stroking inwards, all the more to stoke the banked embers. Foreplay is rough and direct as far as the god of thunder goes. Why use a prolonged attack when an icepick to the wall will do? But, haven't the past weeks and months proven effective for a patient strategy?  
  
"Li'l more," he says, or more precisely, slurs. It's the metal hand that finds it, *tink*ing against the ceramic, delicately. No cracking the vessel or spilling the precious stuff all over the newly cleaned bar and floor -- he takes one slug, throat working, and sets it down again, still careful.  
  
The booze has brought him to the point that it's actually relaxing him -- there's a pliant bend to the spine that has his elbow as support, at one point, head thrown back for a dizzy instant before he has his warmer hand at the Thunderer's nape in turn. That he might, should, could question or stop, for the sake of monogamy or sheer bewildered surprise at an attack on a front thought dormant and abandoned. Well, the rum's drowned all that as neatly as a litter of unwanted kittens. His body's very clear on its opinion of the matter, and the brain has checked out.  
  
True, puddling the floor under rum and broken crockery would be a loss. Assuredly Bucky would be lamenting the waste of the rum, if not responsible for cleaning up the spilled liquor. Not Thor, though, not when the vehicle for getting rid of the inscrutable buzz deep in the skull plays out more or less according to form. Kissing the mortal has to cease, of course, with his mouth occupied by other things. Very well, time to turn to bury his face along the invite line of neck and shoulder; those aren't occupied. Forgetting about the spice of the rum, he murmurs something in the language of the first city, biting lightly at earlobe and neck and collar in kind. Each deliberate nip is a gesture to ruin, the price and the penance for interrupting decent drinking.  
  
Pliability helps, anyway, because his hand goes right under the waistband of the boxers with unerring certainty to reach the center of such heat. Bucky's cock is a thing of magnificent splendour, even by Asgardian standards, fitting his hand perfectly. Hmm, the bar still serves its purpose, better than the wall originally intended.  
  
Bucky might realize the dozing strawberry-blonde in the booth a lifetime away, cuddled under the coat, must be having good dreams: she's smiling.  
  
Each bite makes him jump, just a little, liquor and lust rendering him more sensitive than usual. He nuzzles blindly into the golden hair, kisses when he can, encouragement made mute by the way he's biting his lip. His eyes are cloudy, heavy-lidded, a dreamy sensuality present, unlike his usual bright-eyed bartender's mask.  
  
Nevermind that this is his workplace, his boss's mouth the one calling up little pink blooms to mark its passage. He rolls his hip a little, angling into that seeking hand, hard into those fingers whose apparent delicacy belie inhuman strength. The contact makes him pant, softly.  
  
Where hath the distrustful man gone? Banished to a coat closet somewhere. Thor isn't about to lie on his laurels, Goldblumesque, and curl that arrogant smirk of infinite knowing. Wisdom implies continue doing exactly as he has, blowing a stream of hot breath across the pink rosettes imparted by his teeth. No sharp canines pierce the skin, but the innocence burns away where he laps the crescent of skin hidden behind the ear along the neck. Brazing in there, he imparts a sharper nip, dictating a plethora of sensory responses only to discover the reaction thereof. Suckling the marks all stir heat in blasted nerves, stealing their acute sensitivity before protesting the abuses leveled.  
  
As if abuses really matter too much. Nevermind this is his workplace, Thor is what he is: bold Asgardian, a warrior, courageous. Thor grips Bucky’s cock in his large hand and balances the warm weight, squeezing once. Fearless strokes settle into an unerring rhythm, coercing the man to thrust back however he likes.  
  
"Thor," It's a whimpered, whispered plea, bitten off short at that nipping behind his ear, just below the line of dark hair. A jolt of pleasure, as he turns nearly onto his side, ribs against the bar. Thrust his cock he does into that grip, heat mollified by a growing slickness. His fingers slip through that bright hair, massage the scalp, trying to turn that profile for more kisses. The other hand beneath Thor's shirt again, the small of his back before he's reaching for the waistband in turn.  
  
White button-down shirt and black trousers do not a formidable defense make. Maybe next time, if there is one, Thor shall be resplendent in armour spun of divine energy and Asgardian metals, clad like the knights of yore under breastplate and vambraces, cuirass formed to his chest and greaves to turn aside mundane weapons. Faking attention would be a lie, difficult to slip off the pants without some kind of interference from his erection, hard-wired responses as sharp with the Thunderer as with Bucky himself. The same touches and stimuli send him crashing into the stratosphere.  
  
But neither does he play by any kind of similar rules. Give and take matter so little in his perspective, all the more obvious when the tipping over makes clear what he can do. Another nip, then, but this time held, half sucking and sinking in. But gifted bastard that he is, the stroking speeds up a notch and feeds every inch through the pinch of long fingers tightened into an oval perfectly made for the task. Pity the rum isn't good for pouring out; alcohol does no favours to skin. When his thumb flicks along the underside ridge, catching weeping wetness, the traceries grow more elaborate. Only then the march answers the beckons of his fingers, mouth settled back for a kiss. That's how Bucky Barnes is going to be shoved over the edge into oblivion.  
  
Just delicate enough not to fumble with Thor's fly -- as pointed out, that can be negotiated with mere touch. Seeking to find if the god's as roused as he is. The kiss is fervent, tongue seeking, as much to muffle his own desperate sounds as to call up desire.  
  
That's all his discretion consists of, no thought to find somewhere more private. Half the staff could be watching, for all he knows or cares. Each stroke pulls him up to the sort of curl that makes the muscles of the belly tremble with it, hips bunch as if sinking into willing flesh.  
  
He doesn't last long at all. Blame the rum. Blame the scraping edge of months of one particular desire unsatisfied. It ends in a whimper, the moment held trembling at a peak before that Aesir's hand is bathed in the inevitable tribute of salt warmth. Well, at least he didn't scream.  
  
Is there any doubt? Thor is used to sexual encounters filling long, dark nights and blistering heights of passion. Action he favours in all things, and this conquest is another victory, one as sweet as defeating jotunn in the mountains. Bucky’s cock caught in his fist and hot cum pumped out bring a shock of delight, and the Asgardian groans.  
  
He is what he is, after all. Tongue lashing the questing point meeting his parted teeth, he sacrifices his mouth for the play to bruise Bucky's lips again, drinking up the whimpers for what they are and not totally questioning the intent behind them as small shards of power infuse him in lieu of food. If anyone asked, the salt and sweetness of the rum is responsible for leaving one drunk. Pushing back Bucky's hair from his face, Thor claims the mortal’s mouth, all the while neatly sliding his fist up, low, and always steady in stroking Bucky’s cock to the utter finish.  
  
Not until the triumph of the end, when the wages of salt are used, glistening wet, to traverse the way back down a few times. And then, that hand brought to the god's mouth to be completely licked clean. Waste not. In the meantime, it's not as though his own needs are forgotten, but shoved to the side.  
  
His hair's come loose from its tie, stray strands to brush aside. Trembling, half-slumped over the bar, trying to steady his breath. The blue eyes are glassy, shocked, if not quite to the extent they were the very first time. This time it's suddenness and intensity, rather than the fact of it at all.  
  
That idle gesture of Thor's makes him grunt and shudder a last time, perhaps the casual obscenity of it. It's started to filter in, what he's done and where. No sign of his usual cockiness -- indeed, there's that whisper of adoration grown to a rush. Desire, something like submission, though no fear. Not sure enough of himself to speak, though there's the ghost of a smile for offering.  
  
Thor removes his finger from his lips, the salt tang imparted on his tongue different from the rum in a trace. He then lowers his palm to the countertop, expression at a remove from its usual arrogance. Hot with something else, a burning intensity so very rarely on display directly. All the fun is gone, replaced by an endless passion as strong as the hurricanes that brew in the Atlantic. Too late, for the choice Bucky made to be here was... if not ill-advised, then risky. It remains so, stroking his jaw made smooth and easy, tilting him just slightly. Questioning, even. There isn't too much of a guess for intentions there.  
  
A ghost of a smile, a spark of taut inquiry. Then he leans forward, another of those blistering kisses given to steal a taste if it's not something to avoid. "It's a good rum."  
  
That virtue he has, if virtue it can truthfully be named. To not second-guess decisions or go back on words given or bargains made. Witness that decades-long friendship with Steve. And that decision was made, even if passively, with no attempt to scurry off home before. Nor is there guilt or hesitation now, even in the knowledge that he's heard merely the first movement in the piece. Risky, surely, but that's never been a deterrent.  
  
The stroking makes him close his eyes in pleasure. The kiss he opens to, a wordless answer, unfolding to the taste of himself on that deft tongue. The comment, though, makes him jolt with laughter. "I'll say," he says, dizzily. "I'm actually drunk. I haven't been this drunk since I don't know when."  
  
"For now. Does it last?" For some things, even the formulae of Erskine and his darker counterparts, are something of a mystery. Thor can smirk in approval all the same around the kiss, reaching for the last of the bottle and drinking whatever remains straight for the source. He can't say where the glass ended up. The other elixirs in reach are all oddities -- holly extract, gin, nothing really suited. Heady spices saturate his lips and he licks them clean, flickering gaze traveling over Bucky's face.  
  
"Take me in your mouth?" A rhetorical question, really, but the statement isn't quite there to level a demand plainly so. Another day, another time, this would pass but he isn't up to withholding himself from the offering made plain.  
  
A moment's thought, lips pursed. Bruised, a little, already. James glances around, finds the rest of the glass, and takes it in a couple slugs. Let it boost it, bolster it along. "Has so far," he allows, tongue still thick with it. Another kiss, heady with the fumes, before he draws back enough to look into the god's face, in turn.  
  
Whatever he sees there makes that wicked little grin curl up the corners of his mouth. Flushed with both liquor and lust, the blue eyes all the brighter for it. "Thought you'd never ask," he replies, sotto voce. "D'you wanna do this here, or go upstairs?" There's humor in this, rather than fraught shock. He bounces back from so much, up to and including wrapping his brain around the idea that he's queer for the chief of all gods, the Prince of Asgard.  
  
"Right now," Thor speaks in a slow, elongated drawl common to Oxfordshire and the southern counties. "I could tilt you just so on the counter and take advantage of your mouth being at the right height." Cut-glass English sidesteps the niceties, rendering the profane infinitely more sensible and reasoned. No one else is gathered in the club's main floor, the mezzanine as good as on the moon for how inaccessible it must be. Only Kara remains anywhere in sight, presumably fast asleep under that coat of a blanket.

  
He brushes away Bucky's hair from his face, an idle gesture with the clean fingers rather than those anointed by the salt cream, even if he licked away almost everything. "I am in no mood to wait. Here, or you might get as far as the hallway." The soldier's choice, quasi-privacy under the dim copper light or taken on marble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. Rarely if ever has Bucky Barnes, the plaything of karma, had good fortune. That changes with Thor.
> 
> (Comments welcome. I <3 comments. Anything you want to see? Use that space, by all means!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More. 
> 
> Bucky wants more, however he can get it.

Thor brushes away Bucky's hair from his face, an idle gesture with the clean fingers rather than those anointed by the salt cream, even if he licked away almost everything. "I am in no mood to wait. Here, or you might get as far as the hallway."

The soldier's choice, quasi-privacy under the dim copper light or taken on the marble bar.  
  
It makes him shiver, that gesture. There's a spark of mischief in his gaze, for a moment. Then, simply, he kneels before Thor, first one knee, then both. No temptation to play coy or provoke. Not with that look in the god's eyes… or in his own, for that matter, as he gazes up at him.  
  
Thor’s used to seeing enemies scowling at him, hate in their eyes. He’s used to adoration from other Asgardians, but little genuine emotion not blurred and influenced by his rank, his mantle. Fewer still look to him with any sort of joy implicit in their eyes. They demand some due for the fealty owed, forever seeking a way to usurp a fraction of the majesty for their own purposes. Going down to one knee might be the way of a Crusader knight receiving the anointing of the chrysm or the pass of a sword to the shoulder, but that puts Thor on edge.

Telling in the eyes, an unholy blaze sanctified a shade of surreal indigo. Spoken in the arrogant curl of the lips, the way his hand falls to his hip. The other briefly touches the marble. One day. One day.  
  
With his slacks open, though not pushed down, he gathers up the loose ends of his white dress shirt and pushes them back. Unbuttoning the front comes lightning fast, one falling after another. It's in Bucky's own time to begin.

Thor's not one for humbleness or fealty, and pride is infectious. The first kiss is just below the navel, as Bucky’s fingers draw down from there, seeking the stiff shaft he dreads, and adores, and needs so much in this moment

Nothing can really prepare him for the size difference between man and Asgardian god. His pulse spikes, hand trembling as much as Thor’s cock quivers when his broad fingers sweep over the veins and polished smooth flesh.

"Or do you want me up there?" he asks, softly. "Tell me what you want." It's a command, not a request. That's where there'll be a little spark of something -- not quite defiance. Who, precisely, thinks he's in control of this encounter? Or it might be daring a little, seeing what he can provoke.

A brief moment of shared eye contact affirms everything, an electric snap of concord sinking into place. This is what Thor gives, and what Bucky can take.

"Banishing the darkness and anger in you. Replacing them with memories that haunt you in a different way." Might as well be upfront about it. The slow, burning smile dawns over the room in all its fabulous, unbridled ferocity, Thor’s delight a firm presence. "Watching my cock vanish into your throat is merely a side benefit."

Rapture by any other name is just as sweet, surely. He curls his fingers around the last of the buttons, the white shirt open in the front, revealing the landscape hewn into muscular plateaus and cut into stepped terraces down his ribs, sliding to the descending vee pointing to the hard, demanding length of him. That's what pride will get Bucky.  
  
"You've already done a lot of that," the soldier comments drily. "Definitely left your mark." The sight makes his lips twist, and it's far from revulsion. The perversity of the entire situation, perhaps. No panic settles here, only wonder, the dull perturbation brought on by a lack of experience.  
  
The metal hand is planted on the wood of the counter to the side, the warmth of mortal flesh what cups Thor’s shaft, curls, strokes its formidable length. Gentle, exploratory touches before he bows his head. Another of those shudders, as the dark hair veils his face.

 _Shit. He’s huge. I’m going to suck his cock_. Some stunned part of his brain registers the shifting reality as he prepares to take his first taste. Thor groans softly above, the devilish charm faltering.

In every other sense, the blond is male, observably and overwhelmingly so. Pale golden hair at such odds with flushed, tawny skin that darkens ever towards the tip, the pearl drop gracing the end after a few strokes of Bucky's hand. After a moment, he traces forgotten sigils of a language known to precious few in this line of work or life upon the back of that bowed neck, sliding, moving carefully to avoid impeding whatever pace is wanted. There's something to be said for being engulfed in that willing, indescribable heat.

Wet heat, prompt suction around the corona, the testing play of his tongue along the great vein. Toying, at first, that tease. He's still inexperienced, feeling his way both literally and figuratively, fingers tightening.  
  
Experience counts for much, but too great a value put on expertise would have every escort equal to the All-Father, and the finest of lovers pronounced as those who spend hours on their knees engaged in nothing else. Thor's own preferences slant infinitely more in a direction dominated by a multitude of skills and intellectual gifts that make someone _interesting_ rather than the equivalent of a triple-jointed pleasure elf easily found in any corner of Alfheim.

The fine hair rising at even those light touches, the fingers beneath the silken fall of heavier hair make Bucky shiver again. Remembering what he learned from watching porn films furtively and then trusting Natasha to show him her calculated talents, he tries to apply what he can. From his first assays into oral sex, giving Thor a blowjob is no easy thing.  

changing the angle, and learning, little by little, to take it deeper. An occasional cough, but patience is rewarded by experimentation, and a glance up, now and again, to gauge the blond’s reaction.  
  
Willing, indeed. The god can feel, beyond the physical caresses, the response in the mortal's body. No doubt that this is the result of mere reciprocity, not with the dilation of the pale eyes.

He needs more. What Bucky can't yet take entirely isn't neglected, fingers warm and slick from these efforts to stroke the exposed shaft in his fist. Bigger than his own, bigger than the black inflatable plug hidden under the bed at its broadest girth. Fluttering awe and fear mingle deep in his belly, a hollow ache creeping lower to his semi-hard phallus.  
  
Thor slides those long fingers against Bucky's collar, swiveling neat little motions into the knotted muscles. Massaging the trapezius muscle enough to start forcibly easing tension out of it comes naturally, and the effort of will to not just thrust then and there until completely swallowed draws a line upon his brow.  
  
Balanced in front of the marble bar, the Asgardian warrior steps in slightly, legs apart for balance. The slow, evocative roll to meet Bucky's mouth takes no roughness, and he's welcome to use every technique his mortal mind can conjure on the willing man.

Eyes watering, Buck has to take a breather, drawing off in a long stroke, complete with the most maddening suction he can bring to bear. Heavy-lidded again, licking his upper lip. Attribute it to the rum, if the word 'blame' does not apply.

A nudge here, an angle there, all shifts the angle of attack, Thor's corona rolling against the ridged palate, filling that hollow void. Diabolically delicious, as far as he is concerned. "Try swallowing," he murmurs. Not only for his own desire; merely considerate.  
  
A look up to meet Thor's eyes, and that slow smile is in evidence, before the former sergeant nods.  
  
Considerate, indeed. Bucky’s welcome succeeds, and the blond Asgardian rolls his hips. His cock is lodged more deeply than before, muscles of the throat working that length entirely void of volition. There are little sounds, entirely stifled but felt nonetheless.

Bucky is not quite whimpering with need again. Yet.

The low, visceral groan from Thor comes in multitudinous harmonics. Glasses don't ring, no bottle shatters, but the reverberations travel through bone and marble and weakly humming piano strings at a distance. Low, rolling melodies of lust and restraint pass every steady breath blown out. Spiced rum lies on his tongue and mingles with the less alien flavours imparted by an earlier taste, both sampled and swallowed. His tongue flashes over his lips, and that smile is enough.

Still braced with the metal hand, the scrape of metal against wood, while the others venture further around the Thor’s buttock into the start of that cleft concealed behind.  
  
Hands slip to the dark mahogany locks, spreading them back out again, long enough to get a handhold on Bucky again. He might feel the pull on his scalp, the twist executed to angle just so. Stifled sounds put another shudder through the Asgardian, the dark cast of his features all the more dramatically highlighted where shadows cast a burnished hue over his cheekbones. His hips move slightly, ass pushing into the willing, welcome fingers spread against the cheek.

Any more vigorous and Bucky finds his fingertips sliding near the puckered hole clenching under the teasing brush. Curiosity is a dangerous thing for a man like him. Playing with Thor is like juggling glass bottles of napalm or Greek fire. He brushes his middle fingertip around the rough starburst, earning a grunt for his daring.

“Don’t stop.” Not an order, not a demand. Thor massages his fingers over the knotted chocolate-brown hair, encouraging the mortal to continue with what wordless approval he can. Restraint is a hard-won thing.

Rippling movements carry on as swallowing plasters them closer. The blond tentatively breaks into a short, testing pace that proves easier for Bucky to match. The slick satin of cheeks and wet velvet tongue matched with the pull of the void too irresistible for Thor to stop rocking his hips.  
  
Want might be fumes as potent as liquor, the incense of sacrifice, rising off the mortal like smoke. The touch on his hair, the grip, is enough to add to it, like sparks rising. Care and gentleness might be necessary to keep immortal from damaging mortal, Leviathan whirling minnows away with his passage. But even the hint of an edge resonates like struck crystal, as he struggles to take in a mouthful of hard cock.

For a moment, he splutters, choked against the breadth of Thor’s shaft weighing down on his tongue and the glans bumping up against the back of his throat.  
  
That overture towards a different pace is clearly welcome, making human fingers dig into the mass of muscle, not yet seeking entry. Hanging on, if not yet for dear life. He matches his pace with the Asgardian's, eyes closed again.  
  
Wildfires start by careless sparks in tinder-dry conditions. Do the same apply to feeding Bucky, the flame of his passions blown over by a ruffling column? Thor cups the back of his head to keep it from banging against marble and granite, feeding him the bared length that slips out from the mortal’s rounded lips.

Thor leans into the soldier more strictly than he did before; withdrawing a few centimeters and plunging in, slowing his lazy withdrawal. The promised heat in that sultry, sucking mouth boils his blood, undermining whatever warrior’s discipline keeps him in check. Bucky gulps to match the tempo as best he can, the shorter strokes faster and angled better to feel out the contours of Bucky's mouth, dragging the heavy weight of his thickening cock through his lips.

"Good?" A question not without its humour.  
  
"Mmhmm," Bucky agrees, since that's about as coherent as he can be, considering. It has that edge of need to it, of course. A flickering glance up proves his pale eyes glassy with lust, pupils blown wide. Playing along, he offers the suction of eager lips, tongue pressing to the underside vein, making the tight space tighter. Someone's learning fast… and better at taking that plunge into depth, constriction welcoming the intrusion, a liquid embrace.  
  
Not precisely an occupational hazard he's ever foreseen, earning a injury that way. He didn't enlist in the Navy, after all.  
  
Coherency optional, the currency of the moment lies entirely within Bucky's purview. Every fluttering constriction of his lips or the curl of his tongue rouse the god to reactions, subtle as they might be. Solemn features concentrate upon the finer nuances the mortal's face shows, be that his hollowed out cheeks or eyes glazed in need. What wars upon the snowy arctic mask, the golden-haired Asgardian is witness to the full performance. His hand disengages from dark tresses for a moment, and he strokes Bucky's jaw with his thumb.  
  
Mustn't drown Bucky, of course, but that slight upward pressure goes in concert with the steady pace of withdrawing and plunging in again, again, _again_. Pianists play for unerring stability, and Thor is a kind of a musician, chords humming in his rougher, panting breaths. Closer, now, the magnetic call from that gifted mouth drags him further to the brink. The entanglement of his fingers pull Bucky closer, and he flexes again.  
  
"Good." It has all the hallmarks of a war cry, low and throaty, rolling up the column of his throat.  
  
Bucky can't really smile, in his current position. But it's there in the eyes, for a moment, wicked amusement bubbling up past that haze of desire. The flex makes him groan around the broad girth of Asgardian dick, breath tickling the fine gold hair of the root. No gagging, no drawing back, and certainly no fighting.

Thor can't really smile either, all said and done. The immense willpower holding him from loosing his full strength triggers other weakening, his knees locked and back bowing to the call of Bucky’s talented mouth. The more he shoves past parted lips grates teeth over his erection, a rough and beautiful counterpoint to slick, satiny wetness.

The plaything of karma on his knees gives Thor a hint of reverence in another way. In turn, he allows Bucky to flip the tables: experimentation done on his own terms, every act consented in ozone-limned focus, sparks of blue lightning dancing around the god’s temples. Appreciation he projects by the slight curve of fingertips and a relentless, unfaltering rhythm.

Only the circling of metal fingers at the base, almost too tight, hints at possible resistance when necessary. Perhaps that novelty of sensation will serve as a spur. It works on his girl, after all, the snake-scale ripple of metal plates over the most sensitive flesh, beckoning for Thor’s release, begging for his cum. Drowning might be just the way to go.

Gripping him that hard doesn't hurt, not precisely. Hard to exactly damage his dense flesh, giving encouragement for another scrape of teeth and choking, tight ring of the muscle at Bucky’s throat tightening around the spongy corona.

Muffled words turn into liquid moans as he stifles himself on cock, hot, smooth, the veins throbbing to deliver a thicker, hardened pulse. The next beads to grace Bucky's tongue are saltier than the first, infused by the swift ascent to cloud nine. One last chance to pull away or impale himself, that option is the best the Asgardian can muster.

The mortal tries to shake his head or whine when deprived of a centimeter or two of his luscious mouthful. Reason flees him when the salty slickness of precum drips across his tongue. The taste is different from his own, not quite as tangy and slightly more honey-thick, oozing down the back of his throat.

 _More_. Bucky wants _more_ , however he can get it.

  
Not quite tormenting, Thor changes direction; he grabs the marble bar for support and leans in, giving a larger portion of control over how deep he can go. He almost gingerly withdraws until just the fat plum crown rests upon Bucky's round lips, the base wrapped in vibranium fingers, metal plating catching the humming throb thickening against them.

Seizing the opportunity requires no real conscious thought at all. Bucky squeezes once for good measure, slurping hungrily upon the fat tip like he was born for it. Fate obliges him as more of the sticky, viscous wetness seeps around his lips and gushes against his flickering tongue.

“Yes. Take it all, Bucky. _Suck_.” Head tipped down, the god watches the strokes, mind wild and unattached to the firmament. Some things must be savoured fully before their annihilation of orgasm, and he’ll be damned to Hel if he doesn’t get to watch those frost-blue eyes glaze over and powerful throat muscles clench as he spills his seed down into Barnes’ belly.

An ending he's eager for, the metal hand swiftly warmed to heat. Face often veiled by his hair, impatiently brushed out of the way, Bucky keeps up the best he can. The tie's lost, long ago. Thor gets an impatient, commanding glare at least once… inasmuch as anything is ever commanding from that posture, that angle. On his knees, the soldier tries to hasten the end.

Annihilation is pushing the back of the soldier's head into his groin, and slamming his full length past Bucky’s willing lips to the brink coloured by those fingers. Just the once, and holding, Thor shudders at the spluttering. Another thing to be savoured fully.  
  
After that? Gentleman's choice, being the one on his knees.  
  
Withdrawal to the end gets a little grateful lapping in relief, a pause before the tumble to destruction. Thor only knows how he'll sound tomorrow, after this. Annihilation indeed, but then, being choked in one manner or another by the Thunderer only seems to fan the flames. His body rebels but only for an instant, and there's the sensation of a growl transmitted as intimately as possible along the heavy shaft choking him slightly. His grip upon the thick shaft squeezes, getting a warning snarl from Thor in return, and his strokes are rougher, beseeching the god to come.

An ember fanned to a wildfire, rather than humbled by any of it. Perhaps pride is infectious.

Good. Exhibiting an unearthly calm for a few seconds, he frames Bucky’s face with both hands, almost tenderly admiring his sharp cheekbones and jawline. He strokes his thumb under the mortal’s chin, running down his throat to feel the struggling muscles swallowing his inch greedily.

Tightening muscles dance under Thor’s tawny skin, a harbinger for the explosive reactions to come. Ass taut, the ripcord curl of his body unleashes some of that pent-up energy in two, three, five sharp strokes counterpointing the roughness exerted upon him in return. All that knocks Bucky’s head back, taking the next stroke deeper, and he tightens his grip on the Asgardian’s buttocks,

 _Gods yes._ Yes, he wants this, with every bit of his being. The god is so close, he can taste it with every swallow.

Perfection, the growls from the soldier. A sound is impossible to ignore, the hum travelling across the engorged length throbbing in response. And, with one shivering pause, Thor arches his back slightly. Beseech and providence provides, notably the first white-hot splash, cum thick on the tongue, followed by another. He doesn't howl or yell as he comes, for what would be the point? The perfect acoustics in the club catch him anyways, that low snarl.  
  
Precisely the edge of self-will needed to knock off the last shards of that programming. The Soldier acts only under orders; Bucky's nearly capable of doing whatever he damn well pleases.  
  
Nearly as drunk on this -- Thor coming hard, his spine taut, hands shaking -- as anything poured from a bottle this evening leaves him panting for desperate breath and control. The ripple of muscle around the stiff length as he's taken, and in turn, the Asgardian is drunk down, swallowed so greedily. He'd snarl in reply, the shards of wolfish impulse perfectly happy to offer challenge even across such a vast gulf of inequality. The sentiment's expressed in another growl.  
  
Inevitable, a force beyond comprehension guns for the Thunderer, putting him onto his proverbial knees. At the moment of his climax, electricity erupts with the force of Eta Carinae throwing off immense clouds of plasma and dust around him. Collapsing thunderous pops rattles the bottles on the nearby shelves, and coming chases away all thoughts for a moment. Galvanized by the bone-rattling release, his flesh glitters with sparks of lightning.

One surge into proverbial dimness again. Perhaps he'll be forgiven for briefly choking the man, perchance not.

There's no glassy-eyed, dizzy loitering once the peak has passed, however. Not at all. He's surging up from his knees to drag the Thunderer's face down for a kiss.

They stand chest to chest. Thor tilts his head slightly at the subconscious challenge, the fight-or-flight response always tilted for fight. How those fingers sculpt Bucky's cheekbone to his jaw and settle heavily upon the counter. His head tips back for the kiss, mouth hard, the familiar signature on foreign lips. A hot, hard kiss at that. Gold hair stirs, chest bare and dappled in minute flexions where breath isn't pulled fast enough to satisfy some hidden commotion.  
  
"You do glow when you come," is the voice in his ear, left a rusty growl for the moment. Even accelerated healing is not enough to counter previous efforts. The soldier sounds pleased by this discovery. Bucky would laugh, if he had the capacity for it. "It just doesn't last as long, necessarily." Another series of kisses, then bites along that throat, arms curling tight around the god's ribs for a moment.

"Better than calling down the storm," Thor's deep voice is robbed of volume. Instead, he's trembling where the shorter, dark-haired man bites into his neck and leaves a procession of faint marks. Heated fire saturates every impression lavished by violent kiss, and his muscular body shivers. Direct, as he is wont to be occasionally, he goes back to that predatory mouth and kisses Bucky hard enough to leave an impression of a bruise. If not that, the nip of his teeth will: on the inner roll, satiny and ample for a mark of teeth in kind.

“Thor Odinson." Awe, if not worship, and a bonfire of resurgent lust, surge up. But Bucky lets go, steps away, shaking again. Lust isn’t slaked by this, even with the flavour of cum on his lips and his throat aching from the ravaging by Asgardian god. He needs more. His expression is more reminiscent of the hunter than his accustomed good-natured self. As is the look up from underneath his brows.  
  
Pursuit is not the warrior’s way. He could give chase, but no. Thor knows better. As far as hunting goes, Bucky needs the longest of leads, not forced back into any corner. That would be the worst kind of behaviour, after all. Pants can be casually buttoned back up, sort of; though it hurts to do so. The button-down shirt stays put, so he can lounge all the more beguilingly against the marble.  
  
Patience is the best way to tame something like Bucky, someone like Bucky. Let him come wandering up again as he works up the courage. It's slow, but back he comes, a pace at a time. Voice low, grating, he says, "I kinda thought, that first night, you might just burn me away entirely."

Then he's touching the god's jaw, metal fingers turning his face to watch the marks shimmer and fade, "You're still hard, aren't you?" Not really a question.  
  
Courage to be found in the depths of the self speaks about the soul. Qualities no amount of cryostorage can erase, nor scrambling undermines fully. One cannot erase the inherent traits that give a man or woman their personality, not fundamentally so, though they might be slanted and layered under strata of assumed identities.  
  
Thor, on his part, doesn't move. The drinks do little for him other than wet his palate and throat, but he might go for one of the cups and pour out whatever concoction Kara the valkyrie bartender conjured up earlier in the night. Something set out in a simple pour, a tipple he can down in a go. The benefits of a rapid refractory period, there, right up until Bucky closes the final distance. His head tilts a degree, unfathomably deep blue eyes showing the deep space between the bruised sky heralding a summer storm and the serene cosmos afterward. "Nay, I’ve control better than that." The clinging black trousers leave no secret otherwise of his hardness, however uncomfortable. Stiff and erect, he strains for a touch. "The lust isn't slaked, is it?"  
  
Bucky is more or less clothed -- jeans buttoned up, as he knelt. The t-shirt still on, and not torn. Only the disarray of that dark hair, and the bruised puff of one lip to betray those initial passages. He brushes some of that golden hair away from one temple, and then steps back again.  
  
Not retreat, however. For there's him spreading his hands, palms out, up, and that little wordless tilt of the head in invitation. Here I am.  
  
Thor Odinson is not known for cowardice. He isn't known precisely for anything less than derring-do. A simple question, then, deadly earnest: "You are certain this is what you want?"

Lead me not into temptation, I can find the way myself. He nods, without any hesitation. Neither backs away nor approaches. The pale eyes are wild as a wolf's, but as calm. He's been offered the choice and made it, and that's enough.

"I will fuck you, James." Matter-of-fact and poignant, the direct statement leaves nothing to the imagination. Thor hasn't an ounce of shame on that front. "As before, bring you to the brink, hold you there, and come in my own good time. Or we can part on that for the day and talk about the rotation of liquors from the cellar at the start of your next shift."  
  
Thor might as well lay out a full feast for a starving peasant and invite him to dine on whatever luxurious morsel he likes. Bucky has neither a guide or a buffer to keep his emotions in check. Some journeys you have to take by yourself. A deep breath, released slowly, and he says, only, "I know." He swallows. “I want that.”  
  
Who leads who down the thorny garden path? Thor meets his wide, pale eyes. He is a hunter, albeit the very worst kind sometimes: fearless, dogged. Some journeys must be made, the dangle of the lure bluntly placed between them. He isn't the sort to reach out and seize Bucky by the collar, hauling the soldier to him. Something different, he’s learned a few tricks while on Earth. Thor pushes off the granite and marble counter and heads for the darker hallway stretching away from the bar beneath an arched alcove. Part of the club's extensive art collection anoints on the wall, a gorgeous painting visible off his shoulder in that mere glimpse, a glissade of oils on canvas.

A flickering halo of blue sparks gleam around him only by surreal circumstance, the wavering bronze illumination of the wall sconces catching in golden hair, silhouetting his torso under the white shirt still hanging open. He casually strips it as he goes.  
  
Entranced, Bucky watches departure that for a few beats, and then follows. Tread soft, despite those boots; he may have learned to dress up to blend in with the rest of the staff, fantastic suits and all, but the boots never change. Not hurrying, not looking for a chance to flee, he stalks after the Asgardian. As he goes, he idly pulling a folding comb from his pocket, worrying at an incipient elflock. The utmost in futility, considering what he's walking to.  
  
Down the hall, Thor pauses once to ransack a guest room outfitted with certain niceties. Drawers open and shut, contents rattled around. A few glass bottles and a plastic tube he pulls out, like a fabled sea witch ransacking her maritime parlour. Bucky watches while the objects are set aside on a wooden shelf swept clean of anything else, save a pair of pegs below. The white button-down shirt has a new home, hung lazily, and the blond grins.  
  
Another choice. Bucky swallows, tasting the salt on his lips. Now could be the time to pull the ripcord and bail out. Not a chance, not a hope. Offered something more than a throat fuck, he finds himself drawn by magnetic lines. He paces forward, neither too fast nor too slow. Almost dreamy, his eyes shine like crystal in the dim light, catching the glow of the lamplight and glinting like a beast's.

No. He’s not turning back. Not a chance.

He gazes at the sculpture of that body, the ideal that even the most perfect mortal is only a pale image of. No turning back, not here. He comes trustingly into the god's reach, expression almost peaceful, hair brushed back but still not tied, down past his shoulders.  
  
Thor stands perpendicular to the wall, shoulder separated by a few inches. Careworn brick in rugged crenellations passes under the pads of his fingers, whorls of stone and fire-hardened mud speaking of New York's history in hardened lines. No different from the contours in hardened muscle or serene expression, which means much when he reaches out for Bucky's elbow.

Refined steel plates might warm faster under the heat webbed through those strong digits, radiating their own higher temperature for the man to bask within. He yanks inwards, pulling them together until Bucky's chest brushes his, and that composure holds fast when sliding his fingers into the carefully smoothed brown hair. So much care made for appearances, wiped away in a moment.


	3. Delving Into Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lion-hearted Prince of Asgard holds the key to what Bucky craves. As far as Thor is concerned, it's his privilege to give it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wanted you to fuck me raw, be as rough as I could take." Gods only know why -- decades of inflicted suffering and Bucky runs to one of the few beings on earth capable of doing so much worse to him -- and begging for the privilege of intense pleasure. Perhaps asking willingly really does make all the difference.
> 
> "Or to fuck you, too." His head's back against Thor's shoulder, lip bitten hard enough to draw blood. "To be in your hands and taken."

  
  
No. He’s not turning back. Not a chance.  


He gazes at the sculpture of that body, the ideal that even the most perfect mortal is only a pale image of. No turning back, not here. He comes trustingly into the god's reach, expression almost peaceful, hair brushed back but still not tied, down past his shoulders.   
Thor stands perpendicular to the wall, shoulder separated by a few inches. Careworn brick in rugged crenellations passes under the pads of his fingers, whorls of stone and fire-hardened mud speaking of New York's history in hardened lines. No different from the contours in hardened muscle or serene expression, which means much when he reaches out for Bucky's elbow.

Refined steel plates might warm faster under the heat webbed through those strong digits, radiating their own higher temperature for the man to bask within. He yanks inwards, pulling them together until Bucky's chest brushes his, and that composure holds fast when sliding his fingers into the carefully smoothed brown hair. So much care made for appearances, wiped away in a moment.

Another time, another place, Bucky would be fighting with all the strength in his body against the Asgardian pinning him against the wall.

No matter how hopeless the fight's outcome, a small part of him yearns to struggle against Thor. He knows he doesn’t stand a chance. He’s seen with his own eyes things that should be impossible. Never mind what Nat and Steve told him about god of thunder and what sort of damage he lays down in a fight with Mjolnir.

But some depraved, quiet whisper whispers terrible ideas -- fight Thor and end up pinned down against the floor, his jeans ripped down, thick fingers assaulting his puckered hole. The vision makes his cock stir within his tight jeans, and he feels the precum slowly leak a stain into his boxers.

Bucky trembles under the broad fingers pinning his shoulder and cupping thee back of his head.

His thighs clench against the breadth of Thor’s leg pressed to the softened brick. No one else is nearby, the Asgardian-owned club all but empty. The Valkyrie staff haunt the upper levels and have an unnerving talent to vanish like ghosts. 

Somehow that soothes the tiny kernel of unease about being seen -- being  _ caught _ \-- still clinging to Bucky like a burr.

Thor lowers his head to catch the signature scent of the man: hot metal, sandalwood, a wisp of the lemon cleaner. His golden beard brushes against brown hair and Bucky’s temple, lips tracking lower.

He needs only one hand to lift the soldier up again, pushing him into the wall.

There's a faint, absurd rasp and clang as the metal shoulder hits the bricks, only a little muffled by the white t-shirt. This should be one of those postures that conjures up a fighter's reflexes, already mostly pinned, back against the wall. Indeed, Bucky brings his hands up, and the fingers even flex for an instant, as if to curl into fists. But instead, he slips them around the god's ribs, curving to the narrowing waist. His touch is light, almost tentative, as if he were the one who might hurt Thor.

He’s so warm. Larger than life, someone who dwarfs even Steve, the gold standard for human perfection. Bucky wants to touch him so badly.

Still he wears that grave expression, save for the widening of his eyes, white-rimmed.   


Lifetimes of experience on the battlefield and in warriors’ company have a few advantages. Thor may overlook many emotional subtleties. Fear, though, he recognizes, scenting the tang of it.

Fear has no place in his plans or the generous invitations bestowed upon his bed mates. Even if Bucky has yet to find his way to a bed.

"Hit me if you have to." Plain offering in case old instincts require action, a sop for the Winter Soldier buried somewhere in the scrambled thoughts and rewired synapses. Life-defining events do not always need to be gold medals or Victoria Crosses. Cerulean eyes and white-ivory smiles can do enough for that. He offers the outlet of violence, a free shot, a magnanimous and overconfident gift. 

Thor bows his head to press a kiss against the hollow of Bucky's cheekbone, the vibrating stifled laughter transmitted around that seal. "Take out your rage or fear on me, as you would." 

"I'm okay," he tells the god, softly. It may have an edge of whistling in the dark, insisting something be true to make it true. He jerks the hair from his face, expression haggard and hopeful, fraught mask slipped askew to show the lust boiling away in the dark. Then, honesty rears its head, "For now. I may fight a little." If it's as rough as he at least partially hopes.

Further along, the next kiss treks to the temple, and veers down, brushing aside the mussed locks. Under Bucky's hands, Thor is warm, oh so terribly warm, absent of scars and perfected as the All-Father’s son should be. Hands slide lower down the soldier’s back, both descents benefiting from the natural arc of the spine, guided to his firm backside. There Thor spreads his fingers and squeezes, the grip not anything but possessive.   
  
Bucky tries to keep his focus up on the Asgardian prince’s face, those compelling blue eyes. But as soon as the brick rasps his spine, the hands pull him down to ride against the thigh parting his leg, he cannot stop himself from caressing Thor, exploring the muscular, perfectly honed body at arm’s reach.

He  _ needs _ this, black garnet lust roiling deep in his belly.

Still more of those wandering touches -- down the long muscles of the spine, a metal palm on his belly, sliding up to where the heart beats strongly. A kiss for the corner of Thor’s mouth closes the distance. The grip on his ass makes the muscle there bunch, a reflexive grind -- for his arousal's still painfully obvious, denim or no.   


Thor gives very little quarter in those admissions of truth, gripping the firm curves of the buttocks to hoist Bucky up. Only a little, but enough to divorce him from the cares of gravity for the moment. Two good squeezes become harder, kneading, working his fanned fingertips deeper and firmer. 

Yanking the jeans down is going to happen later, of course, though the process already begins by straining the waistband, the zipper. Under Bucky's hand, his heartbeat is a steady pound a hammering drum as regular as the atomic clock. Wandering touches find his body already warming with arousal, quickening to he resurgent lust burning deep in Thor’s eyes.   


Bucky leans back into the wall, letting friction take some of the weight. Being lifted prompts a grunt of surprise, but not of displeasure, and he rolls his head to expose his throat further. One leg lifts, trying to twine with Thor's own; any other situation, it'd be the beginning of a grapple intended to end with him choking the life out of his opponent. Here, it's just another means of bringing him closer yet.

Lips keep close to his earlobe, tracing upwards as the positioning of their bodies press them together, reducing any separation to a slip of shadow. With Thor so close, Bucky stays ever so secure. And that's the point.   
  
He can’t wait, not like this. Hands dive beneath Thor's waistband under the black trousers, fingers just digging in to the small of the back. Metal that would normally score deep lacerations and bruises on an average mortal leave minor divots.  For once, Bucky doesn’t have to hold back or worry about hurting someone.

The jealous grab is nothing. He tilts his head to steal a hard kiss, taking Thor by surprise, drinking in the guttural “Barnes” uttered for a moment. They both know the truth. His tongue pierces the space between Thor's teeth, flicking, delving, and that kiss is nothing like the one he gives his girl. Reverence it is, even with sheer lust. Brutal, scouring. The only kind of worship he knows how to offer this particular divine being.   
Choking the life out of Thor would be a challenge. He rises to the thread of violence almost eagerly, knocking his hips forward to jerk the heavy, metal-augmented body up an inch with no effort at all. The soldier moans at the manhandling, flexing his leg, grinding down harder along the slope of the thigh he straddles. No mistaking his need, his hardness a prominent lump in his jeans.

Celebrate the vehemence with which Bucky is marked: teeth sink into the sheltered whorl where hair curls on his neck, the lobe of his ear captured and tugged hard for the sensation. Tongue applied in liberal dashes downgrade any sting to a melodious percussion of flaring heat and simmering burns, wanton lips sealed tight to the skin for a taste of salt and sweat. Stable as ever on spread feet, the golden-haired Prince of Asgard boxes him in against the wall, hoisted ever higher while the implicit demands build.    


Bucky sacrifices the t-shirt in a hasty pull up and back, stuffing it behind so there's a little less chance of immediate brick-burn. Some kinds of pain don't add to the experience, not yet. Then fumbles at the jeans, the boxers beneath, shoving them down a little, nearly popping the button off the fly in his haste.

Steady increases tug and pull, Thor nudging Bucky’s head to the side to brand a line of suckling kisses across the trapezius and deltoids. When he reaches the base of the throat, Thor lashes his tongue over the Adam's apple and further descends. All actions of lips and teeth and tongue develop quickly. Below, a different matter, yanking and hauling at denim to peel back those unwanted layers. Freed cock springing forth points arrow straight at the god’s navel and they both groan together, loud in the hallway.

“You’re hard,” Thor says the obvious, face hidden against his neck.

“Yeah.”

Bucky jerks at a kiss striking over tender nerves on his throat. Metal jingles and glass chimes. The real chicanery arrives a moment later. Thor grabs a glass phial before it falls, snatching it faster than Bucky can follow. Just another reminder, if he needed, that his partner isn’t human and never was.

The contents are liquid. He doesn’t need much help to guess what they are, where they go.   
  
His pulse is a-gallop beneath Thor’s lips -- behind the curl of the ear, the hollow of his throat. A little fear threads through desire like spice among sugar. Grinding back, in time with the god, his eager little movements betray him. Hands on Thor's shoulders, his flanks, do not quite claw, yet, but the fierce ascent hits him like a drug. Bucky doesn't speak, makes no sounds beyond rough breathing, the occasional little huff of pleasure or surprise.   
  
Goodbye, jeans. Thor pulls, and pulls harder, supporting the mortal one-handed to manhandle the denim out of his way. The barriers only serve to irritate him idly; a quick reassessment allows him to tear the outermost layer to the knees and the boxers have only half the distance to travel. Knees will do, hobbling Bucky partly for the moment. Pinched material swept away intends to spring his length free from its imprisonment, where the interposing hand slides away from attending on clothing to grip his straining cock firmly instead.

Thumb pressed to the smudged spot on the underside fits Thor so perfectly, his warm fingers choreograph strokes in rough, quick jerks. Skimming under the bell-end ridge, the grip pulls directly up to point to the space between them.

The exposure and then that grip leave Bucky wrapped in a white noise fugue for a moment. The harsh lust makes him arch and gasp, shameless. The scrape of metal on the brick behind them -- vibranium alloy will leave its mark there, like feathers brushing over stone.

"Thor," the mortal says, tightly.

“Wait,” Thor has to fight for the words.

Whilst Bucky caresses and explores the tactile contours of the Asgardian diamond-hard body, he finds the responsiveness near instantaneous. A jump of the heartbeat, the arching hardness stiff against his thigh and traveling to his belly, losing another inch above the air as he is lifted. He stops stroking Bucky’s cock, leaving it abandoned and jerking, smacking against his abdomen.

Another groan torn free speaks to impatience. Bucky’s face is a study in misery and longing.

Thor’s cerulean eyes flick to the glass jar, long as his middle finger and broad as his thumb. The cap twists away with effortless ease, cast to the ground like clanking down. The mortal jumps at the noise, chafed against the broad spread of the thigh supporting him. 

They both watch, transfixed, as the phial tips over and first drops strike directly upon the god's fist, the mortal's ruddy length.

It's then that the cool liquid registers, and he blinks, not quite jarred out of the haze of lust, but definitely given pause. "Somehow," he says, on ragged breaths, "That's the worst thing I’ve seen you do."

Then there's no more commentary -- hard to be a wisecracker when every instinct has him thrusting into the blond's grip.   
  
Thor lowers his head to leave a string of orchid-petal marks on Bucky's throat -- they won't last, bastardized serum or not. He meets that announcement, smoky-eyed and unperturbed. Yet more of the glistening lubricant spills across his fingers, webbing between them, running over the rounded mounts of his knuckles. An ample amount to smear upon the tantalizing hardness, and those thrusts come louder, amplified by the perfect acoustics under the arched hallway and liquid glazing every nook and cranny. Trickles run down the length of Bucky’s cock and fingertips stroke his balls, coating them in cool runnels that warm when blended in by friction.

Thor has the mortal writhing already, growling in frustration, low in his throat. He can't spread his legs any further, not with his jeans still binding him, but Thor can feel him straining against them.

"Yes," he hisses, "yes." Metal fingers sinking into the muscle of the god's neck, gripping, turned into a rough caress.

Cat may not have the mortal's tongue, but this is good enough. The ghost of a smile comes and goes upon proud lips, and then the leonine head bows to bite at Bucky's sloped shoulder again.   
  
Between the bite and his stroking fist, Thor attacks at two points. He leans into Bucky fully for support, moving his other hand down from clutching Bucky’s ass to cupping it underneath. That casual gesture startles the lust drunk mortal, how easily he can be hoisted up one-handed.

He finds himself thrusting into open air again when Thor tips over the lube, pouring it down his back,just low of the tailbone and sinking into the split divide. Fingers curl to capture the excess, pooling upon Thor's supportive hand, and any guesses where he spreads and liberally massages  _ that _ ? Bucky’s eyes roll back when he feels the lubricant massaged into his puckered hole, smeared around in circles, pressed right to the middle of the clenched starburst.

When Thor fails to breach the ring, the ragged pants and insistent thrusts become jagged and rough. Every attempt to impale the broad finger pad comes to naught, and damn if Thor doesn’t softly laugh, thick with affection and pleasure, at the effects of the teasing. A smeared line of precum runs down his abdomen, clear and warm.

The sounds are increasingly animal -- that kind of primal urge is enough to bring the ghost of the wolf closer to the fore -- and the mortal hand digs in to the small of the god's back, trying to press him closer.   
  
Who else can he be the wolf with, if not the god of thunder? The phial ends up tossed a tad roughly upon the shelf adjacent to another row of such fascinating gewgaws, their identification and purpose unclear. Bucky doesn’t suffer overlong, jeans dragged down a little further. He groans, writhing in haste. Readjustments are necessary when they are so hopelessly entangled. Pushing the mortal to the wall is an interruptive staccato burst, crackle of metal on brick, and the stroking halts.   
  
Anticipating the protest, both slick hands rip pants and boxers further to the ground, shredding material along the seamed axes to obliterate any sense of restraint. Impressions made to strike the brain through underhanded ploys, for whilst the mortal contends with that sudden baring, the slicked fingers that supported him the entire time launch their fresh assault.

“Oh  _ God, _ ” Bucky is choking, gasping for breath. Thor grins and the burning heat sears his mind when he shuts his eyes.

Long middle and index fingers part his buttocks, gliding up and along the cleft in search of the dusky star again. Caressing in ragged little circles, the Asgardian pushes to the sides, stretching the little hole by Bucky's insistence. Slow-trickling droplets ease the way for the first delve, so much as to leave no path untraced

That takes a little to sink in, that his anus is parting for a fingertip, eager to cooperating with this little tryst. It's hard to think at all, because, well, Thor has obliterated his higher thinking abilities.

"Slow, please," he asks, voice gone tight. "You're gonna make me come too fast."

How cute, he thinks he has an opinion. No time to mourn the lost jeans, the boxers -- he'll have to make the walk home in a fine suit without a scrap of underwear.

Thor's closed fist once more settles in on Bucky’s cock, engulfing it completely, but not for a slow exploration. The wolf is out; hard and quick, the law of the wild.   
  
It's a little disorienting, to not feel he has to strain to hold himself up. But any amazement at the laws of physics and Asgardian strength -- that the hand violating him holds him up -- is swiftly drowned beneath rising pleasure, and he spreads himself for those fingers. Muscle grips at first, the ring relenting only after a moment to that initial penetration.   
  
Dark blue eyes measure the response through gold-threaded lashes. Thor dips his head briefly in acknowledgement. His palm is squarely positioned underneath Bucky, a firm, solid foundation though his fingertips pierce that greedy little hole, twisting, curling to test the elastic resilience that drags on the tips. In, out, all the better to push Bucky to new heights without pushing too far in a single go.  Soon those fingers are up to the second knuckle, then up to the third, better to nudge the mortal towards an orgasm.    


“That’s it. Clench around me.” Instructions come in a rough whisper.

What can Bucky do but nod shakily?

The fluttering muscles milk at the two fingers thrust inside him. Lube makes it impossible for Bucky to pin them, and he feels the aching burn slowly taper off to a deep, satisfying warmth. The stretched portal widens around the knuckles and he makes animalistic noises at the back of his throat, pulling himself up to escape that thinning tension. Thor gives him no escape, pushing his hand up to fully complete how impaled he is.

They remain locked that way for near to a minute for Thor to explore the velvety walls, spreading his fingers apart and grinding his palm against the perineum until that glows warm to Bucky too.

Thor withdraws his middle finger and hooks lightly, feeling about until he locates the dense thicket of nerve endings. The moment he strikes, the soldier jerks up, gasping.

“Thor!” A gulp of breath isn’t enough. “No. No, you’ll make me come.”

“Perfect,” he mutters, more to himself.

“I can’t.” Bucky rocks his hips, unable to get high enough to escape the massage of his prostate by firm, strong fingertips. Whatever he wants to say melts away.

Thor briefly straightens and meets that frost-pale gaze stricken by frantic need and despairing hunger. One look is all he needs, and then they meet in another another kiss, deeper, drawn out through the triumphant press of lips on lips.   
  
He throws an arm around Thor's neck at that, the kiss chaste only for an instant before it's all offering, submission, breath fluttering from him. Burnt with it, nerves laced with the lightning of instinct that has conscious thought caged. That leg hooking around again, higher, thigh against the Thunderer's waist -- there's the absurd scrape of a rough boot sole on his calf. It's the only covering he has left, now.   
  
The boots aren't going anywhere, partly because Thor loves the look and finds it somehow appropriate, not that he has the words at all.

Gentle he is not, never has been. But the opening to his fingers sliding back and forth around the sensitive nerves is a sudden addiction. He delves to milk the swollen point, smiling at the softening resistance clutching every stolen inch of digits pressed into the sultry heat.  Bucky takes him without complaint, and that deserves a reward.

One that will be had, when the man’s cock once again ends up slid over by an oiled hand, enough to keep him at full and total attention. Steady in all respects, the god pulls away just enough to whisper near Bucky’s ear, "Stroke yourself." Whyever for that?   


The answer comes quickly.

That stroke brings his whole body with it, rolling lithe up from the shoulders, consciousness almost entirely subsumed in that little span of heated flesh. All Sergeant Barnes knows is wrapped up in the stinging phantoms of fingers on his cock and the very real ones forcing a thick rivulet of clear slickness out of the slit at the crown. Barely able to believe how much coats the underside of his shaft, trailing down to his balls, Bucky makes the mistake of clenching unconsciously at the sight.

The pressure on his prostate robs him of breath and he jolts as though electrocuted. Given it’s the god of thunder, Thor  _ may  _ have pricked him with a shock of stimulation. But he obeys, taking himself in hand, the one of flesh. 

  
Thor doesn’t wait, flipping him around to face the wall, albeit with two digits pressed tightly together within his rectum, scissoring within the burning velvet grip. Thor's arm angles under one thigh, and his other hand can manage to hook under the other. No heads roll, Bucky unable to whisper a protest. He leans back, propped up against Thor’s chest, and finally,  _ finally _ feels the frightening length of Thor's cock slapping against the cleft of his buttocks.

The Asgardian nips his ear. “Still close?”

_ Close? _ He might just explode and fall apart at the same time. But this new plateau is bearable, if fleeting. Bucky is drooling precum uncontrollably, flirting with ruin, his balls heavy and churning like a storm.

“Give it to me,” he says.

“Good.” Exactly the answer they want to hear. Thor  isn't patient, when anyone gets right down to it.   
  
No protest -- he moves as he's urged, though there's a glance over his shoulder as Thor's behind him. The metal hand is the brace again, rasping over the brick of the wall, and the god can see the muscles of his back go taut, feel them move against his breast. Feet set, carefully, in expectation of force.   
  
Bucky is poised near to midair, spread wide enough by the firm hands grasped between knee and thigh. Thor leans over his shoulder, the whole tone of fraught patience. Whether nuzzled behind the ear or simply kissed, the softness has a juxtaposition to the blunt removal of fingers for an agonizing few moments. All good things deserve a bit of patience, no? While seething in the glow of desire, waiting more than a few seconds may seem torturous, an unnecessary cruelty, in the end.    
  
He won't be jostled much. The inevitable nudge presses to his formerly besieged ring, pressure greater than twin digits that violated him prior. Thor aligns himself with a little work, flexing his knee a fraction, and drags Buck vertically down until the initial pressure surrenders and gravity -- forgotten so long -- does the rest. Slickness is a blessing.   
  
It's all stranger than he imagined. That Thor might casually set aside gravity as a mere inconvenience to raise him so easily; somehow it's a thrill like bondage, in its way. A little nod to the helplessness that the god declines to inflict, but enough to make that internal spectre register complaint in the form of a spasm that makes him clench down… and only serves to have him make that initial impalement that much harder.

"Fuck," he bites back, under his breath. A grunt, and he mutters, weakly, "...you're bigger than I imagined."

It is clearly not a complaint, not by the sound of hand on slick flesh. "Must be the angle."

His head's hanging, hair down, curtaining his face. Forgetful of where he is, though will he be able to pass this spot in the future and not recall? There will be the mark of fingerprints in the friable brick.   
  
"And you're tighter." The threnody poured out against Bucky's ear carries a certain warmth, stricken by another bite. Enough to set those nerve endings alight, contrary to the smoldering heat as his own weight pulls him down upon the fat tip pushing into Bucky, praying him open.

"Do that again. Making me work for it?" A question hinges on a dark promise of laughter, albeit the deep chocolate notes to leave signal lust has overtaken Thor.

He can’t cry out, and he squeezes down. The shaft violating him is enormous, worse than it was in his hand and in his mouth. He has no idea how he can possibly take it all, and with the lubricant and inexorable pull of gravity, he  _ is. _

Not for the first time, Bucky is grateful for the serum repairing damage. Tearing down there would be dreadful but his bruised, swollen hole stretches around the cock stuffing him to the point he swears something has to give.

But Thor knows more about this than the gasping, moaning soldier he holds. He doesn’t rush, giving ample time to adjust to his formidable girth. Besides, the tight clamp around his cock sliding down centimeter by centimeter is indescribable.

He tightens his hold, working with the softening muscles until the reddened sphincter naturally slides down, feeding that blazing black hole what it wants. Bucky rests his head against Thor’s shoulder, still working his fist up and down his cock, slower as he tries to adjust to the discomfort. 

Only the slap of lube and the mingled breathing, rough and eager, fills the hall for a time.   
  
Thor doesn't move -- not until Buck is properly impaled and incapable of going any further down. Only then will choice vanish, blown away on a demon wind, sacrificed for sake of other pleasures. A hint of the divine nature comes with how easily Bucky is lifted, rocked up and drawn back down with force enough to batter away any remaining decency. The percussive beat skips a note unlike the heartbeat against his ribs, thunder in muted echo. There is no mistake what they do, standing in the middle of the back corridor of the club, all pretenses of secrecy lost in the elongated shadows and sounds of fucking.

"Part of me wants to fight you," he confesses, voice gone small, uneven -- interrupted by a little cry at each thrust. The body bears this out, the muscles that harden each time he's impaled.

Thor’s rhythmic lift and fall emulates a pistoning machine. He is not rushing, trying to keep them both teetering on the brink of coming undone. His girth exerts pressure on the prostate, though, and the fight for control takes all the mortal has to keep from spraying his load right there. He leaks all over his fingers, making the copious handful of lube poured from the little glass bottle seem modest by comparison. He can feel the soft beard tickling his cheek, chin nudging his neck to be bared.   
  
Bucky has no way to struggle beyond that. "I can't not fight, but you're so strong." The admission's delivered from between gritted teeth.   
  
The bites make his shoulders bunch, breath sucked in in those gulps. "And so big," he adds, an answering dark note. "I wanted this." Wistful, but not surprised, not shocked.   
  
Try to battle a hurricane, what would the point be? Best punch the waves or lash the wind, demanding they heed mankind's whim. Thor ranks among the primal forces and delivers what he’s been asked to give. Another pang rattles through him, the reverberations rattling Bucky stretched out over long, sliding strokes. The stranglehold of Bucky’s hot, reddened hole on his cock brings out the faint glow of electricity around his wild golden hair again. A crackle of plasma leaps off the brick wall and rebounds.   
  
A hand slides through Bucky's hair, abandoning the left side for a moment. "Do what you need." Voice tight, he redoubles his pace, speeding up to jackhammer deep inside. "Is this still what you want?"

Another kiss to the neck counterpoints the obscene hammer blows that bounces Bucky up and down, working half the length of the rigid cock into his ass. All it would take is  _ no _ for everything to stop.

Not a chance in hell. He’s addicted now, committed and praying he does not perish of wanting before they both come.   
  
"Yes," he says, and that monosyllable rings heavy as tungsten. He knows nothing of coquetry here, of lies told to please. Not when his body is an open book, wants bright as neon scrawls on dark streets. "Oh, yes, fuck, I've been dreaming of you in me. The things you did to me. I wanted to beg you for more. I wish I were tough enough you didn't have to hold back at all." Meeting him thrust for thrust, his heartbeat leaps like a deer. He's ceased stroking himself, both hands braced, fingers spread wide and quivering over the brick. More fingerprints from the left, the dust and smoke of years scraped away, leaving raw, red marks, flakes of mortar bright.    
  
"I trust you. I know you'd stop if I asked. But I don't want you to."   
  
Foolish mortal. "Everything and more, then," Thor somehow has the capacity to speak, but bearing up under pressure sufficient to carbonize him into diamond and the turmoil takes a heavy toll. "Stop worrying about me."    


The Asgardian can’t hold back now. No long drilling, he aims deep and adopts long, punishing strokes taking him to the root and sparing Bucky very little. They both freeze for a long second when bottoming out, frozen in place. Serum or no, the intention to be felt and  _ remembered _ in coming hours lies behind the roughness. All the more since the trajectory seeks that hidden bundle of nerves for calculated attention, grinding deliberately on Bucky’s prostate again.

At some point Thor decides it’s time to really push him over the edge, giving him exactly what he asked for.

Freedom to handle a human without kid gloves in bed is novelty enough. Bucky’s assent gives a rare sense of wonder in the prince, a prize he is all too eager to claim.

“Oh, fu--” The sudden, firm downward drag on his legs impales Bucky harder than he has ever experienced. He takes six inches of rigid cock in one go, oiled and thick as a tree trunk.

He can’t breathe, or even find the power to speak, head lolling back in a welter of dark hair. Thor spreads his legs even wider, knees pointing wide apart, to exaggerate just how stuffed and vulnerable and full he is.

Movement pulls within, pushing forward and drawing back, a vacuum that carries away his thoughts in bright white iridescence down to the point of retreat. Veined girth bumps against inner walls, setting off nerves he didn’t even know existed. Thor is relentless, slowly drawing him all the way back to just the corona wedged inside.

They both shake, Bucky protesting in gasps, sweat beading on his brow. His toes have gone numb and his hole burns in the best of possible ways. It can’t even quiver, pulled taut as an elastic band.

The divine grin burns against his shoulder. Thor bites him and pushes him down again, supporting his tightened legs on the descend while rising in a hard thrust to meet him. Stars explode in front of Bucky’s eyes, and sticky warmth splatters over his belly, joining the slippery trickles starting to dry there.

Better to corrupt the senses until they misfire completely. Thor sets himself to the task like he does every physical labour, wholeheartedly throwing himself into the work. He sweeps away the ashes of sense, the mortal letting him do the heavy lifting, contributing little except for the occasional slap of an aglet against his boot.    
  
Relying on the wall may be one last anchorage he is effectively denied, the better to plunder him in the freefall to certain arousal. Another step back and Bucky has no handhold at all, finally suspended in his embrace to be reamed.

"Beg me for what?" A question laid out there holds all the incendiary promise of a World War Two-era bomb buoyant in the Thames, floating in sight of the City of London. Thor knows he’s playing for time, anything to distract from the climax approaching Bucky.

The angle doesn't shift, corkscrewed in so deep, testing the clenching hold and perhaps stirring the last added braincells around.   
  
"This," It's frankly a sob. 

They've reached that point in the game where Bucky is lost to pleasure and holding nothing back, his back arching and bowing, pressing that little nexus of pleasure down against the invading length. Thor feels the trembling every time he really brushes over it, and hones in his laser focus on thrusting against the p spot, over and over. If Sergeant Barnes is going to break, he’s going to be milked for every milky drop he can give.

It’s quite a lot.

He'll be bruised and sore and utterly replete. 

"Wanted you to fuck me raw, be as rough as I could take." Gods only know why -- decades of inflicted suffering and Bucky runs to one of the few beings on earth capable of doing so much worse to him -- and begging for the privilege of it. Perhaps asking willingly really does make all the difference.

"Or to fuck you, too." His head's back against Thor's shoulder, lip bitten hard enough to draw blood. "To be in your hands and taken."    


Another of those rough applications of force, then, jar Bucky's head to the side where Thor waits to kiss him. Or, properly, to ravage his mouth, ignoring blood and maybe languishing in it. The torquing of angles follows suit naturally, wrenching him off the wall. 

Be careful what you wish for, Bucky Barnes. The wish fulfillment may be a ferocious proof of miracles in the black-iron shadows, administered by the Asgardian instead of a fairy godmother.

The contractions are hard enough to stop his breath when they hit, draw tears from under lids tightly closed. Stifling himself in the effort to not blaspheme, in the nucleus of pleasure so intense it's indistinguishable from pain.

A swipe of that metal hand leaves parallel clawmarks down the wall.   
  
Without the brick, the suspension midair will be unforgiving somewhat. His thighs press harder to his stomach, legs pinned back below the knees, casually abandoning all forward slant. While the pace before was a canter, Thor kicks into an outright gallop, pulling down and thrusting up with a magnitude greater insistence than before. Every moan, growl or shout is his to taste, the unmitigated harshness coming undone. 

As rough as one can take is a very subjective matter, but untold years of experience guide him. He might guess whether a smack perilously close to the taut ring of muscle will be too much or just enough, three bare fingers angled down to force a reactive, spontaneous tightening. Whether pinching a nipple and tugging while twisting just so brings out the needed burn or leaves eyes rolling back in the skull. Most wouldn't sustain this horizontal on a bed, let alone standing up.    
  
Lust and its darker cousin, two beasts in harness. For each artful little cruelty is greeted not with pleas that he cease, but another little nova of sensation. As if some part of him, deeper than James, deeper than Winter, has been missing that particular mental annihilation. Torment shaped for a fine art, albeit only under a journeyman's hand, and now he's found himself within reach of one of its ultimate masters.

After all, a god trained to war presumably knows how to inflict a certain amount of force to set him free. Bucky hurts but doesn’t know pain, too far gone into pleasure and the hard treatment in sex he craves right now, that he still can’t ask for. Not from his girl, not from Steve or anyone else in the world.

Thor instinctively gets what he needs, and offers it all without comment or judgment. Warriors both, they get when emotions form a frazzled knot and desperately require an outlet that mirrors a no holds barred spar, but with an incredibly different outcome. 

Most aren't capable of taking the rougher use, being impaled repeatedly with no choice about the matter. Striking deep, the thickening length of Thor’s cock foretells ruin. He skewers Bucky again, seating him so deep his balls smack against the heavy sack beneath his throbbing root.  

His eyes burn like indigo flames, and the floor shudders as Thor unleashes his pent-up release in scalding, molten waves. He holds back nothing. Once broken, his control slips away on every gush filling Bucky.    
  
A mind wiped utterly clean of anger or fear or love or any consciousness of sin or guilt. Such is Bucky, pushed beyond the brink. Only little keening breaths and eyes gone blank remain. The boiling heat within him  brings him to a secondary peak, a height beyond, quivering against the god like he's being shocked.   


“Fu-... Fu…” The broken melody broken by gasping inhalations comes from Thor, not the mortal sheathing him beautifully.

Nature is full of endless cycles. Birth to life to death, the seasons rotating, the end of stars feeding the rise of new elements. Time collapses, time rises. Ask him one day, Thor might only shrug at his own durability likened to that of the cosmos itself.   
  
Stamina may give out, but another ragdoll twist corkscrews Bucky full around to face the blond god, that every reaction saturating his countenance receives some note. Greed spurs it, partly. A need to see his expressions and measure all is well, concern at war with rampaging desire. Tangled legs find their way around narrow hips, the god spanning metal shoulder and scarred back with his arm to hold them fully together.

Not until the whitefire evaporates into complete serenity is there much of a cessation; he goes for broke by playing out every last figment of sensation, elongating that infernal pitch until Bucky cannot possibly wring out another quiver or cry without pain jarring the system.

Coming again, unable to resist the turbulent white churn between them, Bucky goes taut again, his cock slapped between their bellies and bobbing unattended. The fierce raspberry shade of the glans foretells the volcanic pressure building up, without a single finger needed to spur him to climax.

Thor does that work all too well, besieging his prostate by rolling his hips in semicircles, forcing a pang to convulse the buttery soft walls enveloping his shaft. Every clench produces a strong pulsation right around the swollen nerve endings, magnifying the scouring little circles holding him to the fire. Bucky freezes while being milked, his stiff length pushing out another gush of cum after another.

He isn’t begging to stop, shaping “More” in a chattering voice.

Ruin comes around one way or the other, between being held and jackhammered into pieces, or lavished under a bite steadily on the throat that almost teases away consciousness where bloodflow goes erratic -- won't that be fun to see for an hour or so before it vanishes. Thor pushes him as far as it seems to be safe, until the orgasm runs dry and the exhausted, sweating, gasping man sags in his arms. Always there is that lasting, steady assurance of another body against his, when all else is spent.

It might be a wonder to anyone but the Thunderer that he does not simply let unconsciousness take him. Didn’t Thor did warn Bucky that he'd take his own time, without regard to mortal cares? 

Nor does James beg for him to stop. That gaze is fixed on him the entire time, arms around him, legs locked and grip unwavering. It may have turned from a sprint to a marathon. He can't make any sound beyond choked breath, and even that stops for stretches as another climax hits.

Eventually they have to end. Eventually it will, with a cozy bed.   
  
It does have to end, eventually. Thor carries him, wherever they end up, mute and utterly wrung out, but content, in his own strange way. Like a little kid who asked for an H-bomb for Christmas, and got it.   
  
He sprawls onto his stomach, safe under the steady hand of the slumbering Asgardian next to him. And that, too, is good.


End file.
